


Mixed Signals

by Anonymous



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Beta/Omega, Consent Issues, M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-26 06:00:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7563034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eobard Thawne was an alpha. Harrison Wells is a beta. Occasionally even he isn't entirely sure what his body is saying to others.</p>
<p>He isn't displeased with Barry's interpretation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mixed Signals

**Author's Note:**

> I give up. Porn was promised and there's a rule somewhere about having more than one A/B/O fic for a pairing, I'm sure of it. It feels like there's a rule.

In his original body – that is how Eobard thinks of it now, as the original rather than his own – Eobard was an alpha. He had resented it, if he is perfectly honest. Betas are traditionally the scientists, the researchers, the thinkers, the ones who look at the world around them and seek to make sense of it. There are careers and occupations where being α-natured is fine, an advantage, even. Physics isn't one of them.

They are so easily distracted, so unreliable. First rut, first sniff of an omega in heat, all his careful notes and experiments would be left in shambles as he followed his instincts. Not his fault of course, but everyone knows science is betawork, that alphas and omegas don't really have the mindset for it.

Eobard had actually been on the extreme end of the spectrum for an α-natured and the memory of having to grit his teeth and smile in sheepish agreement with such thoughtless remarks still makes his fingers flex and itch to curl into a fist.

Harrison Wells is a beta, of course. When Eobard engages in instinctive alpha behavior now it reads completely differently. An α-natured individual in a β-natured majority is obviously attempting to intimidate, trying to force a reminder of the socialized differences between the sexes. It puts backs up, makes heads shake with indulgent disapproval: alphas, just can't help themselves, have to try and put themselves on top even in casual conversation. Coming from a beta, the same gestures – prolonged eye contact until someone yielded, steepled fingers, wide gestures, keeping the head up and shoulders back – are simply markers of confidence. Alpha posturing without the underlying drama of an actual alpha.

Eobard makes good use of them and he notes with interest how others respond. Barry especially.

The Flash's sex was once as much of a mystery to Eobard as their name. They moved too fast, their personal scent was impossible to discern beneath the overpowering smell of ozone, their expressions and gestures had to be bold and large because when they misjudged the speed with which they interacted with mere mortals subtler ones had a tendency to be lost.

Omega, because the Flash was so fiercely protective of all they called theirs; beta, because the Flash had a scientist's curiosity and cruelty when it came to defeating enemies; alpha, because the Flash was bold and careless with power – Eobard is sure he considered them all at one point and if he ever favored one theory over any other he can no longer recall.

Barry Allen, it turns out, is an omega.

(This timeline. It is entirely possible that others exist where he is a beta or alpha instead – Henry and Nora Allen are both betas carrying the requisite genes for their children to be beta, alpha, or omega; a fifty percent chance of the first, and an equal twenty five percent chance of either an alpha or omega. It is unimportant trivia at best; Eobard has never truly had a reason to remember it but he has never been able to forget it either. He supposes it lingers because it relates in part to his enemy and he has always felt the truth in 'knowledge is power'. Alpha, beta, omega – what does any of that really matter? The only important thing is that Barry Allen is also the Flash.)

Barry reacts to Eobard subconsciously as he would to an alpha. His respect and almost embarrassing level of hero worship has nothing to do with him being an omega; the way he will occasionally show his throat or lean closer unnecessarily does.

Eobard responds to those gestures as an alpha at times, sometimes involuntarily. He tries not to do so when others can see but that the problem with instinct is in the name. Barry enjoys his displays – or perhaps 'enjoy' implies more conscious acknowledgment than Barry is really capable of. He smiles without seeming to realize it when Eobard's nostrils flare impolitely to try and catch his scent, when he straightens automatically at a thank you or a compliment to his intelligence from Barry.

Caitlin and Cisco, true betas, seem torn between embarrassed amusement and concern at Eobard's lapses and Barry's unwitting responses to them. It is better than having either of them realize that he can and does do it deliberately and the influence of Barry's instincts that sometimes appears manipulative to beta eyes is in fact exactly that – manipulation, never the accident they dismiss it as.

“Too much alpha posturing all the time,” Cisco jokes. “Your signals are getting all mixed up.”

“You know it wouldn't… work, right?” Caitlin says quietly. “It's mostly a societal thing, of course, but the percentage of beta/omega pairings that last is –”

Probably far greater than she believes, even in this time, but it is immaterial – “I'm aware of the statistics,” Eobard says. “I have no intention of starting any such thing with Barry.”

He doesn't say he has no interest although it would probably be more comforting for her to hear. She seems to take it as meaning the same anyway, looking a little relieved about his apparent reasonableness.

He watches Barry run, not a blur to his eyes but a human figure haloed by lazy arcs of lightning crackling up and down his limbs. He is still surprised by the want he feels at such moments, the way his mouth becomes dry and his heart races at the sight of him. Even after so many years it feels bizarre to him, sexual desire out of season.

Before, unless it was rutting season or Barry was in heat – and it is suspected by Caitlin that Barry will never have a heat again – he could have looked at him and felt no desire at all. He might have thought him beautiful intellectually, he might have had some empty form of appreciation for his long limbs and expressive eyes, but the impulse to bend his head and run his tongue from one blemish to another on the boy's skin wouldn't have been there. Any urge to mount him would have been dominance related, disconnected from the desperate craving of rut and heat that becomes more and more ridiculous to Eobard as time passes – surely it isn't as overwhelming as he recalls?

He never wanted the Flash. He hated them passionately and never doubted for a second what that passion was about. He never hungered for the Flash's body, never produced the interested signals of a courting alpha to be overwhelmed by the speedster scent of ozone and electricity; he never desired anything of the Flash except that they bend to Eobard's will and be destroyed.

He wants Barry Allen. He knows his pupils dilate when he watches Barry hit new speeds, knows that without scent-blockers it would be difficult to miss the blunted scent of beta arousal that doesn't need anything more than the sight of Barry to wake.

He dislikes the confusion of lust entering the already tangled mess that his regard for Barry, he occasionally finds himself missing the utter sexual indifference he felt as an off-season alpha, but he never wishes that it extended any further. His life would be easier perhaps if he could feel nothing about Barry or the Flash but it would also be very different and certainly not worth living.

He closes his eyes and licks his lips, trying to remember just how strongly the scent of an omega in heat would once have affected him. Compared to it a beta's lust is so mild; surely it's just that Eobard is not used to the capacity for sexual desire at any time that makes it so troublesome. He will get used to it, somehow. Eventually he will manage to tear the desire out at the root. Or if that proves as impossible as excising any other feeling for Barry, it will simply have to become one more thread of the Gordian knot, no more important than any other.

“Stop,” he tells Barry and ruthlessly suppresses the satisfaction he feels when Barry does exactly that. “That's enough for today, I think.”

Barry blinks at him, breathing slightly more heavily than he should be, face flushed. Eobard doesn't think much of it throughout the conversation that follows between Barry and his team, interjecting occasionally when necessary, preoccupied with the latest readings gained from Barry's body. There is something slightly off about them, something that sets faint alarm bells ringing in his head, but he decides to leave it until later, after Cisco and Caitlin have left and he can look for things they have no idea of the significance of without the hassle of coming up with a reasonable explanation or excuse for them. He's not entirely sure if they have any idea there is something to be concerned about in the first place.

Barry has been restless lately, even less focused than he usually is during an extended period of time without metahuman attacks but that doesn't necessarily mean there is an underlying physical cause. Eobard only knows there is something different as an echo he feels himself, like the memory of lightning flickering across his skin. He can't begrudge Caitlin missing something so nebulous but it frustrates him all the same, and even more that he feels he should know the cause of Barry's restlessness, that he is certain a part of him does know it – the part of him he keeps locked down until Barry needs a little push, a little more motivation, a reminder that his 'man in the yellow suit' is still running circles around him.

Perhaps that is what he needs now... or perhaps Eobard is simply hungering for the excuse to stretch his legs, wear his true face, run, _breathe_.

Barry is trying not to watch him when he looks up, his eyes darting every so often to Eobard's lips, his hands, his lap. He doesn't seem aware of it, or the way he keeps brushing his fingers absently across the scent gland at his neck, one of the strongest early signals of an interested omega nearing estrus.

Eobard inhales sharply in realization and then pretends he is as unaware of Barry's actions as Caitlin or Cisco.

Caitlin had hypothesized quite early on that Barry's vastly accelerated biology might mean that if he was still capable of heats he might go through them so quickly they didn't even register to his body. Eobard could have told her that her conjecture was incorrect but he prefers it when she or Cisco 'discover' the problems affiliated with abilities such as Barry's and work upon solutions for them when possible. He is always reminding himself that they are supposed to be the first to walk this field and they must walk in blind. The missteps and mistakes that could be so easily avoided if only there was any experience to draw upon still have to occur.

He had almost begun to believe he wouldn't have to deal with the Flash in heat anyway – that Barry might never find enough time or calm for his body to finish adapting and settle into his new normal, to feel safe enough to go through heat. Eobard had been so busy with far less than Barry after his own meeting with destiny that over a year had passed before he had experienced a rut again – it had made even the worst of his pre-lightning explosions of temper and impulse look positively moderate by comparison, and they had almost been enough for medical sanction. For something that is meant to prompt the α-natured to seek and keep a mate he still thinks his ruts were more than a little counter-intuitive.

He almost winces at the thought of how hard Barry's heat is going to hit him compressed to a matter of hours rather than spread over days – that he seems unaware of its approach isn't going to help. He wonders how Barry intends to deal with it when he realizes. Barry is the type to consider sex – in his own case – to be something that should be part of pair-bonding. His heats are – _were_ milder than most, tedious alone but manageable. If he doesn't have a partner he is already interested in he has no difficulty forgoing one.

Fifteen years of a different biology is almost long enough to get over the bitter envy of that. Almost. He has to wonder if Barry could have kept such a naive outlook in a world where his heats were stronger or – no, there is no point trying to imagine one where his attachment to the ideal of Iris West is a little weaker.

There had been some small petty comfort to knowing that Barry's experience of heat as a speedster would almost certainly be very different – at least Eobard had been somewhat prepared by the severity of his ruts – but that was before the sight of Barry's fingers brushing across his neck while staring at Dr. Wells.

(What has he done recently to trigger Barry's omega-based instincts? Has he been falling back too often on alpha body language to foster a more exclusive sense of connection between them? Has there been some interaction between them that would register differently to Barry in pre-heat? Has he simply forgotten the nuances of alpha-omega interaction, no misapprehension necessary? It wouldn't be the first time he has done so, realizing at Barry's double-take that he has inadvertently displayed threat or courtship behavior.)

“Dr. Wells?”

“Mm?” Eobard focuses sharply on Barry's face, reassesses the flush there, the lingering sheen of sweat. His pupils are dilated but that's no real indication of approaching heat, not when he is in the company of someone he likes and, less importantly, subconsciously regards as an alpha. A better indication might be the sensitivity or warmth of his skin but Eobard has taken pains to establish himself as someone not inclined to casual touches. A day more, he guesses. Perhaps a little less, but surely Barry will recognize the symptoms soon enough. Surely – then again, this is Barry Allen he is thinking of. “What is it?”

“Caitlin and Cisco are going home, are you…?”

“I think I'll stay a little longer,” Eobard says. “I have work left to do. There are cots meant for all-nighters if necessary.” He laughs a little as if struck by a sudden thought. “There are even the so-called heat rooms. I suspect the beds there are much more comfortable.”

“Ah,” Barry says, slightly strangled. “I – uh – I didn't know S.T.A.R. Labs had –”

“There are discrimination laws, you know,” Eobard says blandly as if he has never watched Barry gush to Iris West about the apparently 'excessive' accommodation of S.T.A.R. Labs for their allo-natured employees and their requirements. “Unnecessary in this case. I insisted upon them for the same reasons I made sure the entire facility was wheelchair accessible from the start. Of course,” he adds, smiling grimly, “I have found myself more grateful for one of those choices than the other.”

“Right,” Barry says, gaze flickering to the wheelchair – no, not quite, Eobard notes with amusement. To his legs, to the open vee they make, apparently an irresistible guide to Barry's eyes.

“You should go home,” Eobard tells him kindly, watching Barry shake himself with a look of puzzlement. “You look... tired.”

“Tired,” Barry agrees. “Yeah. Um. I haven't – I haven't eaten today,” he admits, sounding nonplussed by his own actions. “I don't – I'm just not hungry?”

He looks expectantly at Eobard, waiting for him to explain his own actions to him, and Eobard rests his chin upon his hand and makes a soft noise of exasperated amusement. Has it been so long for Barry that he can no longer recall the stages of estrus? Perhaps it is that he is always in the 'glutton' stage these days and no longer associates it with the preparation for heat in a normal omega.

If Eobard could teach him how to take the energy he needed from the Speed Force... but he can't, and the grateful look Barry gives him when he buys absurd amounts of food for him doesn't make up for how much he resents it sometimes – teaching Barry and all the things he is forced to leave out of that education. Sometimes it almost physically pains him how little Barry knows, how much more he could be. He always wants Barry to be his best self – worthy his time, his obsession, of all the effort that went into trying to destroy and succeeding to create him. It's a matter of pride, nothing more.

“Loss of appetite could be indicative of any number of things,” Eobard says. “Have you considered –” He shakes his head. Inappropriate, and difficult for him to justify knowing to suggest when their resident bio-engineer has already made compelling arguments as to the possibility of Barry no longer being capable of heats. “No, never mind,” he says at last. “I'm sure it is only temporary. I'll see if I can find anything odd in your biological readings.”

“Thanks,” Barry says. “I should – I should go.”

“Yes,” Eobard says, tries not to let his eyes linger on him any more than necessary. Alphas and omegas tend to rely more heavily on scent than body language and facial expressions in social interaction – Eobard had to learn and unlearn a great deal in his first few months as Harrison Wells – but Barry is hardly stupid. Naive, certainly. Impulsive and foolishly short-sighted on occasion. But not stupid, however he sometimes acts. “Ah – if you haven't eaten… are you likely to collapse on your way?”

“No?” Barry says uncertainly. “I don't _think_ so, I feel – fine. But I felt fine right before I kept passing out too, so.”

“So,” Eobard echoes. He shakes his head. “Perhaps it would be best if you stayed here, where we have the facilities and supplies to help you if you need them.”

He winces a little even as the words leave his mouth, irritated at the lingering… he doesn't want to call it instinct since it would be α-natured idiocy to try and protect someone that a rational person would know didn't need protecting, but it is something close anyway.

Barry can take care of himself, he reminds himself, though he ordinarily laughs at the idea of Barry trying to face down a challenge without his voice in his ear telling him what to do. Barry can take care of himself and Harrison Wells is a beta who only plays at being an alpha when he wants to and can turn off the act any time.

“I feel fine,” Barry says again. He starts to pace – a few steps one way, a realization he's not sure why he did that, a few steps back, repeat. “I'd feel weird – I dunno why I'd feel weird, I slept here for months, right? It's just different to when I stay overnight because I've hurt myself fighting a metahuman or something.”

“We can run tests in the morning if that will make you feel better about it,” Eobard says. “And if you were unaware we have rooms designed for any α- or ω-natured individuals taken by surprise by their heat or rut –” He raises an eyebrow at Barry's little snort of amusement. “It's actually quite a common occurrence, at least among workaholics such as my staff tends – _tended_ to be,” he chides.

“I know,” Barry says, holding his hands up, still grinning as if he doesn't quite believe it. “And – can I say it's cool that you're so… polite about terminology?"

Aware is what he really means, as if Eobard hadn't grown up with '-natured' as the norm, as if he hasn't been reminding himself for years to use alpha and omega and beta instead until the first time he'd heard it said out loud again recently – _what, what's that term they want us to start using these days, 'omega-natured'? It's political correctness gone mad!_ – it had actually startled him, like a man hearing a whisper of his mother-tongue while in a vast crowd that speaks anything but, halfway across the planet from anything even slightly resembling home.

He smiles at Barry, carefully pleasant, swallowing back something sour.

"It's just – I mean, I've come close to forgetting myself because I thought I was just forgetting about food because I was too busy, not because I was getting really close to heat, but I never actually _did_.”

“You underestimate the willful blindness some people are capable of,” Eobard says mildly. He doesn't bother to track the movement of Barry's hand towards his neck again, raking his fingers briefly across the scent gland there as if it bothers him, though obviously not enough to be fully aware of responding to it. “One of my staff started rutting the walls and insisted she was still perfectly capable of working.”

Barry winces, half laughing and half groaning in sympathy.

“Hence the heat and rut rooms,” Eobard says. “Which are not too far from the Cortex, if you feel like making use of one – the beds are, I am assured, extremely comfortable, although I think at least half the rooms never saw any use. I'm sure you could find them easily enough if necessary. Unless you prefer your medical bed?”

“No thanks,” Barry says, shuddering theatrically. “Spent more than enough time there. I'd prefer to go home, but I don't really want to faint and hit a brick wall instead of boxes full of feathers...”

“Ouch,” Eobard agrees mildly, lips twitching into the sardonic smile Harrison Wells is very good at, for how little he used it before his face became Eobard's. “You can go home if you prefer, or stay, I don't mind, as long as you're sure you'll be fine. Either way I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Barry says. To Eobard's carefully still eye he seems to hesitate, a microsecond stretching out into minutes, before he shakes himself and darts away. Eobard blinks and listens to the last syllable ending, scanning the now empty room.

He waits another five minutes before he scrubs at his face with his hand and curses with words that have no meaning or context in this time, trying to force out the irritatingly persistent mental image of what Barry might look like in heat with the all the power of the Speed Force with him.

He shuts the unnecessary systems of the cortex down, tries to remember where the nearest emergency heat room is. The soundproofing is excellent, almost on par with the Vault, he can scream with frustration without bothering Gideon. He suspects irritation has begun to outweigh amusement for her at last.

 

Barry's skin, slick with perspiration, tastes like (petrichor, estratetraenol, surrender) nothing more than sweat. His eyes are bright and drugged with pleasure, pupils dilated as he writhes on top of Eobard, back arching in way that strikes a beta as uncomfortable and an alpha as incredibly arousing.

Eobard forces his mouth away from the hollow of Barry's throat, brings his own wrist to his mouth and bites down.

He wakes up grimacing at the taste of blood, blinking at the dimness of the room. His heart hums in his chest and his wrist throbs briefly with pain although the skin is already unmarked. The air feels heavy in a way he associates with the future, with moments where his and Barry's potential choices stretch out into infinity and it feels like the one they choose will matter.

He should pretend to be surprised he thinks as he looks towards the open door he knows he closed a few hours ago.

Barry looks miserable, hunched over in the doorway and whining softly between his teeth, a noise he probably isn't aware he's making. Eobard wonders how many times he raced along the halls, stood in front of the clearly marked doors and debated whether or not to open them, wasting time and energy and getting more confused and desperate the longer he took trying to decide what to do. He carefully pulls himself into a sitting position and eyes him, considering his options.

“Sorry,” Barry mumbles to the floor. “Sorry, I know you were sleeping.”

Eobard knows better yet he still finds himself sniffing the air as if he could get any more from Barry's scent than _healthy, omega, heat_. Harrison Wells is not anosmic, he supposes, but compared to Eobard's former senses he might as well be. He is a little surprised by just how strongly even those basics register until he realizes Barry has scrubbed off the special scent-mask Eobard carefully didn't help Caitlin devise, the one to soften and half-conceal his new base note of ozone – a lingering aftereffect of the strike, Barry tells his colleagues when they catch him outside of his forensics lab where scent-blockers are a caution and necessity. Without it, what remains of the rest of Barry's original scent would be too weak to hope to conceal that similarity to the Flash's when he uses his powers, harsh enough to make even Harrison Wells' nose itch and sting.

It makes sense, he supposes, that Barry would rid himself of it. At a time when his instincts are running high he will want any potential mate to have a complete and accurate view of him. A pity, then, that he has run to someone who can't appreciate it.

“What do you need?” Eobard asks and Barry shudders violently and finally looks at him, eyes wide.

“I don't,” he says, the words tripping and tangling in his mouth, “I don't know – I don't – please, Dr. Wells.”

“What do you need?” Eobard asks again, watching the beads of sweat forming on his brow, the way his hands shake as he swipes at them nervously. There are suppressants and soothers for heat but he had only focused on developing speedster-effective treatment for his own biological requirements. He could potentially work out something equivalent for Barry, of course, but he isn't sure this time period has anything to really begin his research with as there was for him and the future formulas for the unfortunate three percent of α-natured with ruts extreme enough to medically qualify as musth. 'Omegan hysteria' is probably still considered a viable diagnosis in places in this backwards era, if the problem is acknowledged at all; Eobard wouldn't even be surprised.

The cocktail had been near lethal and the side effects unpleasant in any case, the cure almost worse than the disease. He can't risk poisoning Barry for anything, certainly not something that might be helpful but ultimately unnecessary.

“I – heat?” Barry says, almost whimpering. “It feels like heat – only – only –”

“Beta,” Eobard says bluntly, addressing the problem with Barry's solution for something he can't even fully admit is occurring. He watches Barry cringe with something that reads to his eyes as embarrassment, although his scent might have said something else. “Despite all my posturing. And of course –” he waves at his legs, carefully dismissive. Barry scowls at that, looks – Eobard is startled by the affection that takes him at the sight – honestly insulted on Eobard's behalf at the idea that anyone wouldn't want 'Dr. Wells' just because he was supposedly disabled.

Eobard shakes his head and tries to keep his tone patient and understanding; outside of high-adrenaline situations Barry responds far better to kindness, perhaps because he knows Eobard has to try for it and does so for his sake. “I can't provide what you want.”

“I'm not confused,” Barry snaps. “I know you're not – I know you're a beta. That's not why I – I came to you because – because you – because I – you always know what to do, and I trust you, and – and what I _need_ ,” Barry says, throat clicking as he swallows, and Eobard chokes on the laugh that wants to escape him that this should be the one time Barry is capable of appreciating the importance of word choice, “You can do that, right?”

“There's another heat room down the hall,” Eobard says. Barry lets go of the doorway and staggers a few steps into the room, shoving the door closed behind him. “Fully… equipped. You could – should – lock yourself in –”

“Don't want it,” he says stubbornly. “I want – I want –” He breaks off, confused, blinks at him wildly. “Heat isn't like this,” he tells Eobard.

Eobard makes an understanding noise in the back of his throat and helps to steady him as he crawls onto the bed and holds himself uncertainly above him, careful not to touch any more than necessary. It occurs to him that he can't fight Barry off even if he wants to, that anything Barry wants he has to allow because he has spent far too long as Dr. Wells to lose his cover before he means to. The thought probably shouldn't be as amusing – or arousing – as it is.

Barry's hands are shaking, trembling so hard they vibrate a little and Eobard watches him struggle with his clothing, tearing at it as if he has forgotten how he must have put it on. “This is –”

“I think,” Eobard murmurs, keeps his voice as close to professional as he can manage as he gives in and pushes Barry's hands away to help him with a zipper, of all things, “that Caitlin was partially correct concerning the effect the lightning would have upon this aspect of your biology. Just as your healing is accelerated, your heats apparently are too. I think it seems… 'more' to you because what would normally occur over a period of days is now trying to happen in… hm, hours, perhaps?”

“Please,” Barry says, trying so hard to hold himself still he does the opposite, blurring slightly. “I know this is – you aren't – but please.”

It is incredibly strange, Eobard thinks, to look at him and know that as an alpha he would have been hard the moment Barry stepped into the room, tearing mindlessly at his clothing the second he caught his scent. He would have thrown him down and been rutting into him, snarling and biting, before the first 'please', unconcerned about anything except that Barry was there and ready to take him.

He hardens now at Barry's clumsy, determined touch, but it is because of Barry's _touch_ , not his scent, not the pheromones his body is producing to appeal to his hindbrain.

“Please,” Barry says again. “I trust you.” He makes it sound like it's the answer to everything, to anything Eobard might ask.

Eobard closes his eyes and bites back the noise that wants to escape. He's not even sure what it would sound like, only that it would reveal far too much.

“Because I know what to do?” Eobard says. It should be funny, the way Barry nods frantically. Not even a year ago Eobard would have been hiding a laugh as he watched and yet it doesn't feel satisfying, the vigorous confirmation of Barry's misplaced trust.

The risks – he shouldn't –

He will never go home. Not really. He knows that in his heart. Even if Barry alters the events of fifteen years ago the timeline will not be the same. Close, perhaps even close enough that he can pretend it will not matter, but it will not be a timeline where Barry Allen grew up safe and happy with two loving parents who were never attacked in a whirl of lightning one night.

Who knows what seeing that will do to the Allen family? If Henry and Nora no longer feel safe in their home, if they take Barry from Central and he grows up elsewhere? If Barry is so frightened he runs from the mystery and science, if he is so intrigued he chases it in all the wrong places?

He will still become the Flash and Eobard his Reverse, if nothing else Eobard trusts in that. It is all he can trust. There is no escaping such grand destinies as theirs.

And this timeline – a timeline where Barry Allen will show him his throat, where he will run to him in heat – will cease to be Eobard's.

Nothing of the here and now Eobard is trapped in has any permanence save in his memory and he has never wanted anything so much as he wants Barry Allen. The future will change, that's what future _means_ , but he doubts very much it will change enough to make him regret this.

“I like you,” Barry breathes. “I like you and I trust you and I want you –”

He doesn't have time to add the qualifying 'right now' Eobard thinks he means to add to that 'I want you', almost melting into him with startled groan when Eobard grips his damp thighs and pushes them further apart, sliding his fingers up to press into him roughly. Lucky Barry with his mild heats and without Eobard's utter disinterest out of season; he doesn't need the reminder that Barry wouldn't choose him entirely voluntarily. 

He is willing to bet Barry was halfway to Iris West before his common sense and decency managed to get through his heat-addled instincts and remind him that she is in a happy relationship with someone else. His lip curls and he catches Barry's mouth with his own, a blunt, forceful close-mouthed kiss that has Barry whining with confusion.

Alphas and omegas don't kiss in rut or heat, he remembers suddenly. Instincts to scent and lick and bite are far stronger, overwhelm any such… beta urges. They might remember such things when they are tied and indulge in them if they consider their mates as permanent partners, potential or confirmed, but typically kisses during sex are a beta idiosyncrasy.

He breathes out slowly, calmly, palms Barry's shaking back soothingly and nudges apologetically at his jaw, licking across his scent gland on his way. He twists his fingers and watches Barry jolt, eyes going wide and dark as he makes a throaty noise of approval that provokes no instinctive response in Eobard even as he braces himself against it.

He stares up at Barry, sweating and shaking and rocking against him with eager little movements, eyes fluttering shut with a soft contented groan every time he pushes himself back onto Eobard's fingers and is torn between finding his animalistic need arousing and finding it slightly ridiculous. He can't tell what is responsible for the former, the alpha he left behind with the corpse of Harrison Wells or the beta who looks at Barry, wants Barry regardless. Maybe it would be any Eobard's reaction to any Barry.

He pulls his fingers out and laughs at Barry's disappointed whimper before licking them curiously. Barry flushes, his hands twisting in the sheets, tracking the movement of his tongue and curl of his lips. Eobard watches Barry watch him and feels an unexpectedly strong thrill at the sight – so many years he's watched Barry Allen, to have him finally stare back makes something hot flare in his chest.

He wants to take him apart, wants to make it impossible for Barry to ever forget this heat – this heat that he chose Eobard to satisfy – and he doesn't smile so much as show his teeth. He can't imagine the look on the face of his despised future Flash at the idea of Eobard ever having him like this.

Barry makes an almost embarrassingly stereotypical noise of submission that wouldn't sound amiss in heavily overacted 'heat' porn, baring his neck and watching Eobard through heavy-lidded eyes to make sure he appreciates the sight. It is almost a pity he never shows quite as much certainty in himself and his worth normally.

“You are beautiful,” Eobard tells him dutifully. He is unsure if his tone of admiration is as obvious as he thinks it is, unsure if he wants it to be as obvious as he thinks it is. He is pleased to see Barry preen anyway, a slow satisfied smile crossing his face.

He closes his eyes, forces himself to think for a moment. He can't recall if the door of this room was emblazoned with an Α or an Ω, but he does know there was no B and it was singular, one or the other – that the room is intended for an alpha seeing their rut through alone or an omega their heat. There are fourteen such 'last resort' rooms at S.T.A.R. Labs, two each for what Eobard considers the basic scenarios, and for the first time he actually regrets the careful separation. There are what are sometimes derogatorily, sometimes affectionately termed 'knot-rings', Eobard knows, for beta couples into roleplay or omegas whose partners lack a bulbus glandis, and if he had organized the rooms as most facilities do in this time – not at all – there might actually have been a chance of finding one in the nearest nightstand.

Barry doesn't seem pleased with his attempt to lean over and look, makes an agitated noise and catches Eobard's wrist to slam it back down against the bed.

“I wasn't trying to leave,” Eobard says, though he's not sure how much understanding Barry is still capable of with so many hormones in overdrive. He lets go, at least.

“Mine,” Barry says fiercely and Eobard lets his mouth curl up.

“Oh yes,” he says and Barry blinks at him, looking a little confused.

“Mine?” The uncertainty in his voice is pathetic. Eobard nudges his head up to press his teeth very lightly against his bonding gland. Barry relaxes instantly with a pleased sound, shivering as Eobard draws back again and rubs his hands down his sides, spreading a scent he can't fully register but Barry can.

“Just as much as you are mine,” he says, smiling.

Barry hums, satisfied, lets Eobard pull him up and stroke the soft skin of his inner thighs, wet with fluid that feels so much better than any artificial lubricant Eobard cares to think of, solely because it is Barry's.

“I suppose we'll make do,” he murmurs, trying to decide if he should risk Barry's currently volatile temper and control again to try and find a condom – and groans as Barry ignores him to sink down on him instead, the movement so abrupt and his expression so fiercely determined it steals the breath from his lungs.

It's not unlike being struck by lightning all over again, the sudden rush of sheer _connection_ because it's Barry, it's Eobard, it's –

The very Speed Force screams in Eobard's senses, fills his nose, his ears, his eyes, his mouth, crackles under his skin and ignites in his bones. He smothers a cry into Barry's throat, face pressed close and eyes tightly shut to conceal any flare of red. He is distantly aware of digging his fingers desperately into bed to try and anchor himself, desperate to do something, anything to stop himself grabbing Barry's hips and thrusting up as hard as he can.

When they fight – the best thing Eobard knew of, before this joining – it is the clashing of gods, the entropy that brings the end the universe. It has never really occurred to him before to wonder if they are capable of anything other than destruction together.

Barry blurs, forces his head back at a speed that if Eobard wasn't who or what he is it might hurt him, ducking down to sink his teeth into Eobard's bared collarbone. He bites harder at the slight twitch his prey manages and Eobard forces himself to still, swallowing back a pained noise and panting shallowly. He'd forgotten how heat could affect some of the ω-natured, made them more than a match for the least controlled alpha. He should have expected it –

Barry is always kicking his feet out beneath him in the rare moments he is no longer prepared for it.

He tries to concentrate instead on the feeling of Barry trying to correct his sense of time, align it with what he thinks is the only type Dr. Wells knows, seconds and minutes and hours.

“Move,” Eobard hisses and something must get through to Barry – perhaps Eobard has been even more successful than he thought training Barry to subconsciously need his prompts – because he pulls back and shifts accommodatingly, resting his hands on Eobard's chest and taking a last fortifying gulp of air.

He has never been more grateful for Harrison Wells' body and mind, to know he will remember this – Barry Allen's rise and fall as he is lost to the rhythm his body craves, impaling himself upon Eobard with abandon, eyes fluttering closed on a breathy whimper.

Eobard reaches up and tangles his fingers into Barry's hair, drags his head back to satisfy muddled half-forgotten instincts with the exposure of the long line of his throat. He wants to kiss – bite? Lick?

Barry groans, pushes himself down even harder, muscles clenching deliciously. His eyes open, staring expectantly at Eobard, who finds he cannot understand what Barry wants. He is missing something Barry's scent would tell him, something his α-natured body would have known instinctively, something he would remember if he could only think about anything other than the way Barry feels.

Barry's mouth twists unhappily when Eobard lets go of his hair and drops his hand to his hip to try and help steady him. He licks at Eobard's mouth as if that should tell him something, drawing back to stare at him expectantly. Eobard stares back, entranced. He has never seen Barry's eyes so close, the varying pigments and patterns of his irises revealed to be a storm, a galaxy. Barry licks his mouth again, growling with frustration when Eobard still fails to understand. It's all the warning Eobard gets before he throws himself into the act of fucking himself upon Eobard's cock as if determined to prove something.

Eobard moans, choking on all the things he wants but knows he can't have, hating and loving the way Barry rides him as if he doesn't care who lies beneath him, the way he uses him, intent on his own pleasure.

(If he were still an alpha, would it be such a shock, the delight of his body, the warmth and wonder of being inside him? Or is it _Barry_ that does this to him, not the omega? What would he have done, if Barry had turned out to be an alpha in similar circumstances and still wanted his mentor for relief? Laugh, he decides. Laugh and let Barry fuck him all the same.)

“What do you want?” He knows Barry isn't listening – he can barely even understand himself through his own gasps – but he wants... “Barry –”

“Mine,” Barry says, mouth moving so fast the word doesn't reach Eobard's ears until seconds later, “ _Mine_.”

Every omega Eobard has ever known has been possessive of their heat-partner, would react just the same. He is not flattered. He just wants to roll Barry beneath him, take him the way an alpha would driven by nothing but instinct, bury his teeth into his neck and hold him down as they coupled, a pair of elemental beasts. He wants to sink into the Speed Force, into the connection it makes between them, wants to have that intimacy with Barry too, even though he doubts either of them could bear it, not when the mere joining of their bodies is already so much more than he knows how to deal with.

He grits his teeth and cups Barry's cheek instead, slides his hand down his neck, over his chest, his abdomen, curls his fingers around his cock and strokes, quick and probably slightly too rough, determined to make sure Barry loses as much as he will to this new battlefield.

“Mine,” Barry chokes out, clawing at Eobard's shoulders, writhing under his touch, clearly enjoying it and just as clearly becoming increasingly desperate for something else, something more, and Eobard hisses with frustration.

Of course he is Barry's but he can't remember the way an alpha would affirm an omega's claim, never used it and no longer has the biology to remind him.

He takes his hand away, presses them both to Barry's shoulders and forces him down, shushing him as he whines with confusion, wondering why he's been told to still. He can't work out what it is Barry wants emotionally but physically... he has no problem with that.

Barry makes a winded noise when he eases the first finger in alongside his cock, chokes as he works in the second, twisting, trying to curl them around the base to simulate the knot Barry's biology prefers. It tears a noise out of Barry, a low, intense cry that is not quite pain and not really pleasure and Eobard curses the knowledge that he'll carry the sound with him across multiple timelines without any such moment.

He forces in a third finger – perhaps force is not quite the right word, Barry is so wet not much pressure is required for his body to yield and open to further intrusion – to stop himself from trying to see if he can tear even better noises from him. He can't be sure how much of this Barry will recall when it is over, what he will remember and what will blur in a pleasant sexual haze. Most of it he thinks, this first time, and he would almost risk Barry's memory – but only almost.

Barry's eyes open, yellow lightning crackling at the corners, taking over. Eobard's breath catches in his throat and he lunges for Barry's neck, catching the skin between his teeth and biting hard.

Barry jerks back instead of stilling the way he would for an alpha's sharper, deadlier teeth and Eobard feels the skin tear, blood welling up to flood his mouth. He forgets everything in the bliss that takes him – the sense of relative time he always has, the possible futures he mentally tracks across every decision he makes, the awareness of the power in his body and Barry's, everything.

Barry doesn't seem to notice his absence, is keening softly into his ear, limp and shaking, as he recovers himself.

He's come once, but they count their refractory periods in single digit minutes at the slowest even without heat or rut, or could if they had enough presence of mind for it, and he's already hard again.

Eobard blinks again, stiffly unlocking his jaw and pulling away carefully. He winces internally at the ugly, ragged bite and the blood smeared across Barry's neck by the movement of his lips, feeling like he's defaced a masterpiece. It is unfortunately high on Barry's neck, a bonding bite meant to warn other alphas that the omega has a chosen mate for their current heat. With all the strain Barry's body is currently under Eobard wouldn't be surprised if it actually lasted long enough for Caitlin or Cisco catch a glimpse of it.

He presses his face to Barry's neck and kisses the mark, half-laughing with despair.

Barry would be the sort to think that it meant something, to think it implied permanence. He wouldn't even be wrong. Even a rutting alpha can stop themselves from giving a bonding bite to a casual partner.

He calculates the number and variety of ways he could destroy them both before time with one little slip engendered by having Barry get as close to him as he is to Barry. He slips enough already – _I can't breathe_ , Barry chokes out and while his hands grab at his arm to steady him his legs shudder, eager to propel him out of the damn chair, grab Barry and get him to closer to the equipment to help him – and Barry is so very clever when he wants to be… except that he won't want to be clever about this. He is a creature of ridiculous heart, he trusts too quick, too deep. He won't want to look at Dr. Wells for his enemy, will never suspect him until he has the evidence to force him to do so shoved in his devoted face.

(And this timeline will end. Eobard will run with the memory of Barry's smile, with the taste of him lingering on his mouth, with his cry of satisfaction echoing in his ears, but he will leave this timeline, this Barry behind.)

He sighs at Barry, relaxed and boneless and pressing his face repeatedly to Eobard's, grinning happily when Eobard gives up and tilts his head to brush their lips together properly.

(Omegas don't kiss in heat, not unless –)

His hand and wrist – his whole arm – is cramping painfully, but he has high hopes Barry's confused time sense will let him get away with 'knotting' him for five minutes instead of fifteen or even thirty.

It will drive Barry mad, he thinks, when Iris West finally gives him what he's wanted since his first false heat at sixteen. Love can do nothing about a speedster's attention span. He'll never be content, and  _good_. Eobard never has been, never will be.

Barry keeps kissing him – clumsy, ridiculous brushes of lips and tongue that barely qualify for the name – breaking away occasionally to moan and shudder, clenching rhythmically around him as if to wring another orgasm out of Eobard, something he shouldn't be able to provide but Barry's body seems determined to ignore.

Eobard lets his head drop, presses his face to Barry's shoulder and mouths another curse, shaking apart all over again.

Barry groans, soft and satisfied – smug, Eobard would have called the Flash – and tugs his hair, pulling his head back only to try and press their mouths together again.

Eobard shakes his head, grimacing at the sweat beginning to cool on his body, and lets Barry 'kiss' him as much as he likes, taking advantage of his distraction to slowly and carefully ease his fingers out, sighing with relief when he can bring his hand up to rotate his wrist once briefly before letting his arm fall again, ache gone.

Barry mumbles something before licking the bite on Eobard's collarbone, irritatingly sore and still present. He looks up and beams at Eobard, eyes hazy with bliss and smile wide with delight.

Eobard closes his eyes and settles his hand between Barry's legs, encouraging him to gasp and moan instead.

He imagines the poor boy will be embarrassed when his heat has finally passed, mortified, that he asked his – _hero_ to help him deal with his biology, that he came to a beta for relief. He can't claim to have been overwhelmed by his body's needs or any alpha pheromones Harrison Wells' body can't produce, he has no excuse for choosing Eobard other than wanting to.

His mouth twitches helplessly at the thought of Barry pulling the proud little gestures of a satisfied omega showing off their alpha mate as if his choice wasn't a beta, a cripple, and rightly despised by most of the city. He would do it, Eobard is sure, and if he registered the disbelief of others he would act as if he didn't understand it. He almost hopes Barry really does try and extend this heat-relationship if such entertainment is a likely result.

He tilts his head to one side obligingly for Barry's teeth against his neck, watches him stutter through another orgasm and sigh as he apparently decides he has taken his fill of Eobard for now, pulling off of him and looking ridiculously pleased at the noise Eobard makes – whimper is an unfortunately accurate description.

Such gestures are meant to come from his partner but Barry is the one to try and clean them both ineffectively with his own crumpled clothing, as if there aren't cloths around meant for such things. Eobard says nothing and lets Barry push him down once he's finished, suffering almost silently through his restless movements as he tries to arrange himself comfortably on top of him, determined to cover every inch of skin he can with his own body – the reverse of a typical alpha-omega coupling where an alpha will cover the omega for scent-marking and 'protection'. He is too hot and heavy and Eobard seriously doubts Barry will find him any better as a pillow than he finds Barry a blanket but he likes the absurd declarative nature of the gesture.

Iris will one day cover Barry after a heat, will be the one to lick what on anyone else would be a permanent bonding bite upon Barry's neck, will perform all the instinctive little gestures shared between long-term mates. The version of Eobard that will see it – the never-changed alpha of the timeline's altered past-future – will not care, and will never know he has something to be grateful for.

(Barry will remember for a while at least. Eobard finds he is not sorry for that.)

“Which one of us do you suppose is going to suffer more in the morning?”

Barry lifts his head lazily in a weak attempt to look at him and then drops it again with a soft thump.

“You'll probably end up thinking you've taken advantage of me,” Eobard says, mouth twitching in an empty little smile. “There have been lawsuits about almost this very thing, hasn't there, whether a healthy but in heat omega can be considered to have taken advantage of a physically disabled alpha? And Joe or Iris – who will smell at the very least that you've been through a heat, and Joe is almost certainly familiar enough with my scent to realize exactly who you spent it with – will argue that if anyone took advantage it was definitely me. You were in heat, after all, your judgment is not the best, and you _adore_ me.”

“Yes,” Barry mumbles.

“Barry?”

“Yes,” Barry says again, turning his face towards Eobard's and mouthing lazily at his jaw.

“We do actually need to discuss this at some point,” Eobard sighs, unconcerned. There are very few things, he has long since discovered, that he cannot turn to benefit him in some way, and Barry's affection is the easiest of all.

He thinks of the bonding bite and Caitlin and Cisco's possible reactions to it if it is still there the next time Barry pauses between running in and running out. He imagines the varying reactions Barry will get from his family and friends and co-workers even if he manages to thoroughly shower any lingering scents off, because Barry is a truly terrible liar and likes to be open and honest with his feelings as much as he can. He is already charmingly enthusiastic in defense of S.T.A.R. Labs and Dr. Wells – what he will be like with his body convinced Dr. Wells is at the very least his heat-partner, if not his actual mate, is almost worrying.

He twists his head briefly, presses his nose to the scent gland in Barry's neck as if he could still detect with any accuracy how long Barry's lull will last. He closes his eyes, listens to hum of Barry's pulse and recites varying equations in his head – the mathematics to run on water, to catch a bullet, to travel through time.

Time.

Show me the future he always asks Gideon as if there is only one, and for him there is only one incident he needs to see – _Flash Missing, Vanishes in Crisis_. Sometimes the byline changes, sometimes not even Iris West-Allen can write of her mate's loss as if he were nothing more than a heroic stranger, but always the Flash is missing. Barry Allen is missing.

He could never have kept this.

“Are we okay?” Barry murmurs quietly, and Eobard startles so quickly not even Barry registers the tensing of his muscles. He looks at him, flushed and exhausted and still more than Eobard ever imagined. There is a worried crease between his eyebrows as if he might have caught the brief bitter scent of melancholy despite the overwhelming smell of sweat and sex.

“Yes,” Eobard says, as if anything between them has ever been 'okay'. “Of course.”

“And I can keep you?” Barry insists.

Eobard covers his face with his hand, laughs into his palm. Definitely not out of heat yet, then, still running on enhanced instinct. “Yes,” he repeats anyway, bitter truth and sweet lie in one. “Of course.”


End file.
